


The Siren Head and My Family

by Viceland1



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Trevor Henderson - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viceland1/pseuds/Viceland1
Summary: Father had known all those years ago that I was special, that I could learn to survive.
Kudos: 5





	The Siren Head and My Family

It took my father when I was five years old. My only intact memories of him the paranoia of his final days. One night he woke me up with a fright and took me into the backyard. He put a gun into my hands, trying to teach me to shoot. My mother walked out and started screaming at him in a rage.

“Kill or be killed,” he whispered to me before my mother berated him for giving a gun to a child. He disappeared hunting in the woods days later. They found nothing of his body till months later, finding only cracked white teeth scattered at the foot of an old oak tree.

My mother pulled herself together, for me and my younger brother’s sake. Kept a strong brave face as the investigation in my father’s death went cold. She was always smiling, always so warm, the only hint at something much darker beneath the surface was her reaction to us ever mentioning our mentioning our father’s study. The mask would slip form her face, her eyes dark, his lips thin and downturned, as she warned us,

“Don’t ever go in there, it’s all I have left of him.” But what about what was left for us?

My little brother was three years younger than myself. As an eight year old he was as simple minded as any other boy of his age. He was lucky not to remember our father’s disappearance. Untainted by the tragedy. He didn’t even seem curious about what was in our father’s study, I questioned him on this once and I remember so vividly him replying with a bright innocent smile,

“Well when Dad comes back he’s gonna be real mad if we touched his stuff.” Such a pure thing. I don’t ever remember having such innocence. I was eleven. I would watch him play, and darkly wonder how easy it would to be come up behind him and smash his face into the pavement.

We both started to dream of the sirens at the same time. My brother would awake screaming and cry for me or mother to help him. He would scream and weep while I tried to remain composed, shivering even though there was no cold. The nightmare awakened very distant memories of my father, pacing through the house like a cat, mumbling to himself,

“The sirens, the sirens, the sirens…” I started to wonder if the Sirens had something to do with my father’s disappearance. I was not motivated to do something about it until we started to hear the sirens outside of our dreams. I was walking home from school with my brother, he was blabbering about the new space game his friends came up with. I smiled and nodded along though I wasn’t really listening. Both of us froze in our tracks as he walked past a wooded area and heard it in the distance.

Like storm sirens, blaring in the distance, distorted, just like in our dreams. I grabbed my brother’s hand and told him,

“Run!” and we ran home as fast as our little legs could carry. As soon we stopped in front of our home my brother burst into tears. I held that sensitive little boy close, knowing that’s what a good big brother should do. But all I could think about were the sirens.

My brother was too young and stupid to know what to do. My mother was too shallow concerned with putting on a happy facade. It was on me to figure this out. Father had known that all those years ago that I was special, that I could learn to survive. In the dead of night I crept into my father’s study, and found photos of family I’d never known, places I’d never seen. The one I remember most vividly was a picture of a man who looked almost identical to my father standing proudly in a Nazi uniform. I saw that same man again, in a picture with a woman, and a young boy who was unmistakably my father.

I searched through draws and found strange old files and newspaper clippings. It’s a curse that my younger brain couldn’t retain more of what I saw. My grandfather in an American newspaper being praised for some research with another team of scientists. My grandfather reported missing, much the same way my father was. The strangest thing I found was a very old manuscript, yellowed and stained, held together with string. The whole thing was written in German, the only words I remember was the title, printed in small bold letters on the cover page:

Die Lösung

The most my young mind was able to glean from what I found was both my grandfather and father had been killed by the same entity. Now it seemed my brother and I were the next targets. At the bottom of one drawer I found an old pistol and some ammunition rolling loosely around. Seeing that silver gun, I knew what I had to do, but at the time, I didn’t know if I had the strength to do it. I greedily pocketed the weapon, and every last bullet and murmured my father’s words as my own,

“Kill or be killed.”

The next day I was bleary eyed and exhausted form lack of sleep. My little brother seemed even worse for wear, his eyes black, his face sullen and pale. As I came out to the dinning room, I heard him arguring with our pathetic excuse of a mother,

“I can’t sleep mommy I can’t sleep! Why don’t you do something?!” and our mother screeched back at him,

“Well why can’t you just be normal and happy?!” it was then I interjected and said to my mother that I’d take him out to play and see if that would make him feel better.

“Oh you’re such a good boy,” my mother had fawned while my little brother stared at me, knowing I had something else on my mind. We left around 8 and as we trekked out to the woods I showed him the gun and said,

“That thing killed our dad, now we’re gonna kill it.” My brother nodded and clung to my arm shaking like a leaf.

“I hope I’m brave like you one day,” he told me, and I held my head high. No one would ever know how afraid I truly was. I wouldn’t be like my mother; I’d never let the mask slip for even a second.

We heard the sirens from a distance, and instantly my brother recoiled, but I spurred him to go on, to get closer to the beast. The sirens were blaring louder, and louder, I looked for the source of the noise, but I saw nothing but long spindling trees. When we saw the creature, we thought it was yet another tree, but as we drew closer it became apparent that there was not bark on it, but dry mummified flesh the colour of rusty nails. Its limbs were long and spidery, and where the head should’ve been were two sirens, blaring that horrible noise that had haunted our dreams.

It stood as still as us as we stared at it in fright. As soon as we saw one of its arms twitch, I fired a few shaky shots before running. We never saw it chasing us, every time we turned around it seemed to be standing as still as the trees, but it never lost sight of us, never lost distance, its sirens blaring louder and louder until our ears felt like they were going to bleed.

My little brother was screaming, I tired to fire a few shots at the thing again, but if they hit, they didn’t even leave a scratch. Once more, I remembered my father’s words, my first thought upon seeing the gun, and I did what I had to do.

I pushed my brother off of me, and he tumbled to the ground. He was crying even harder now. He was so shocked all he could say was my name. When he tried to stand up, I fired a shot, and hit the top of his leg. He was stranded now, bleeding out, calling for me me, reaching out after me. As I took off again I threw the gun as hard as I could away from me. The whole time I ran the sirens, and my brother’s screams seemed to follow right behind me the whole time. I never dared to look back at what I’d left behind. After a few minutes all the noise in the world seemed to stop and there was only silence. There was not a single sound in the woods, not the wind, not the birds in the trees, nothing but my own breath.

As what I’d done settled over me, I didn’t allow myself to panic, I walked out of the woods, rehearsing what I would say to my mother, the police, teachers, friends.

I’d cried and made up a story about the two of us getting separated and lost. My mother had broken down into hysterical tears. The police searched for weeks, and found nothing. I never dreamed of Sirens again, or heard them as I passed the woods. The only bad thing that came of the whole thing was my mother having a complete mental breakdown and burning down the house. I lost everything, all the evidence from my father and grandfather. It haunts me that I will never be able to piece together what they knew.

My mother was put into an asylum and I was taken in by a foster family in another town who later adopted me. I grew up loved and without wanting for anything. A few years later my adopted parents pulled me aside to say the police found some remains of my brother. A few teeth buried beneath a tree. I feigned a few tears knowing that was the normal thing to do but felt nothing inside. The weak must be sacrificed for the sake of the strong. That is the way of the world.

I’m married now to a beautiful woman who worships the ground I walk on. Our first baby is but a few weeks old. Such a small fragile boy who looks up at me with his mother’s eyes. Holding him I feel more warm and secure than I’d ever been in my life. If the Siren Head ever returns, I can save myself again.


End file.
